


Ashes

by Sgr_A



Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: Angst, Asmodean Lives, Asmodean Lives AU, M/M, Post-AMoL, he lives, i need to get laid (to rest), tl;dr: asmodean is sad a lot, what do you mean au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 06:57:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7924987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sgr_A/pseuds/Sgr_A
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Asmodean survives but at what cost</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a month ago and edited it to stretch my writing muscles again. Who's got two thumbs and is going to marathon a 10k fic in a month? This guy!  
> The last few paragraphs or so are completely new and different from the first draft and my brain is refusing to cooperate

The night wind rattled the old, cracked windows of a small roadside tavern. Sometimes when it subsided, gentle strings could be heard from within. Jasin Natael, the man who had once called himself Asmodean, was the one playing among the drunk, red-eyed men with grease in their beards and no chance of returning home all on their own. The rusty lantern that no one thought to refill flickered and fluttered and its light barely reached the spiders in the corners. By one of the walls was a chair with no table in front of it, and on that chair, wrapped in his gleeman's cloak like armor, an obviously gleeless man strummed his harp.

Jasin Natael was playing, not for the bulbous masses of flesh in their chairs, soaked in cheap alcohol in an attempt to not remember, not for the tired innkeeper who kept smearing the dirt on one glass into a more even layer for the whole evening, not even for the beauty of sound itself - indeed, such a thing would only be wasted here. Instead he was playing for a meal, and a bed to stay the night. There, among the people who had already begun morphing into something less than human, something slow and dripping and more dead than alive, he briefly wondered just when had he let go of his pride. 

Taking a slow, deep breath, he finished playing the song. He spent a couple of seconds in absolute silence, looking at the flickering lantern until it had seemed to grow in his mind, engulfing everything and burning it down. His fingers started moving, playing an old song that simply imposed itself, demanding to be heard in the dark, lonely air thick with smoke. A long time ago, he could play The March of Death with enough emotion to make a stone weep. That was before he had a reason to weep himself, and now the levels and harmonies added to the existing song would make his head hurt every time he played it. His forehead throbbed as he watched tears pour out of what could have once been the eyes of what could have once been humans around him, sliding down one after another into their matted beards. But his eyes were dry. No tears have ever been able to put out a funeral pyre. No tears were left in him after more than three thousand years.

Over three thousand years, he thought to himself with a small, bitter tug on the corner of his lips and an even more bitter one on the harpstrings. He was the oldest person alive, the one who witnessed the drilling of the bore and both Dragons sealing it in their own times. He had lived in two worlds free of the one who called himself Shai'tan, watching one fall and the other rise. It was a long way to fall but his world had fallen fast. The world that gave Rand al'Thor had a long way to climb still, but now that was put on hold so it could mourn. Natael was not even able to do that much. Three thousand years was a long time to live, even if he spent most of it in the horrible, dreamless sleep. He could no longer grow, and there was so much for him to mourn he simply avoided it entirely. He didn't even touch saidin, although it had been as clear as the one he remembered from his youth again.

No wisdom had come with his age, no pride in his longevity. Not even the fact he had seen two Dragons act, more than anyone, anyone alive could ever say - even the Heroes of the Horn forgot when they were born again. He hadn't even known Lews Therin Worldbreaker personally. The one who had fixed it all however, merely a child compared to his predecessor, Rand al'Thor - his thread in the Pattern appeared closely tied to Natael's own. He would have felt a surge of violent pride, rising from somewhere within the charred remains of his heart, at the thought of being the first one to guide the boy, to teach him his first weaves, to finally go into the Light, following him - but one to many times he had remembered the funeral pyre, the gaping emptiness that sat in the middle of his chest yawned, aching and hungry. All that pride, all the warmth and joy the memories would have brought, it all burned down together with the body of Rand al'Thor. 

Natael closed his eyes, wishing for darkness thicker than the sticky, oily smoke in the inn. And darkness came, but the memory of the Dragon's funeral pyre flickered and it was as though looking at it again. Light had triumphed, and Light had swallowed everything, turning it to ashes in its wake. He opened his eyes again, staring fixedly at his hands as they moved. 

The pyre still burned in his head, and he could almost smell it. Even back then, he had not been able to cry. Playing this very song near the Dragon's feet, all he felt beyond the numbness, the cold swallowing the hearts of anyone who had been there, who had seen children fight and die to give others a chance, was a small flicker of gratitude to be allowed there. Min, Aviendha and Elayne stood close to him, each grieving in her own way. All three of them knew who he was, and yet they had allowed him to be there. 

Min had been the first to learn, he remembered. He didn't even know how or when, he just found himself at the pointy end of a rather impressive assortment of daggers, and she had snarled about flaying him alive and making his hide into lace if he as much as thought of hurting al'Thor, and he had believed her every word. He had already been past the point of wishing the boy any harm, and the bounce of her curls as she walked away seemed like it bore the weight of an Age.

The second to learn was Elayne, and while she did paraphrase Min's threats, there was a kind of a creeping guilt in her features, and she uttered something about the risks, and never spoke to him again. She did allow him to stay in Caemlyn however, and he had watched her grow heavy with a crown on her head and the children of al'Thor -he knew because it was the last time the two of them talked, last time they sat together and Rand was already made of stone, with steel behind his eyes and Joar had wondered if the boy he knew in the Aiel Waste was gone forever. Caemlyn palace had been a safe place to settle down if there ever was any. So he had stayed there, waiting.

Aviendha, though the first one to meet him, was the last to learn outright. To his own surprise she was the calmest, not even putting in the effort of giving a threat. She just nodded and sped past him down the hallway, leaving him confused and watching his back for weeks. Now, he thought, his head throbbing with a sharp ache as the harp wailed in his arms, she had probably remembered everything. The nights in the Waste, the time al' Thor had spent alone with him, the painfully tense month in Caemlyn after his own close brush with Graendal - al'Thor had let him sleep on a mattress inside his own bedchamber, and Aviendha knew. Aviendha had been there from the very first moment and she had deemed him safe.

After the safe, almost peaceful month in Caemlyn, it had, in fact, started looking an afwul lot like hell. Attack after attack, the White Tower delegation that was the start of steel behind the boy's eyes, another wound on his hip made by Mashadar. He had tried together with Min to talk him out of attacking Ilian, but they weren't able to stop him, and he had left. Asmodean stayed behind in Andor, hearing of his victory. After that, the news that got to him were disjointed rumors not to be trusted. The cleansing of Saidin however was not an untrustworthy rumor. It was a glorious, terrifying moment, the one that made him finally break through the shield Lanfear had left him with. He had finally decided, there and then, should he survive until the Final Battle, he would fight for the Dragon. 

Natael closed his eyes again, dull thundering in his skull making it hard to keep his eyes open. He remembered the Final Battle, children dying so that the world after them may live on, sacrificing themselves so the Wheel could keep turning. He remembered al'Thor, still young and hopeful in the Aiel Waste, thrilled at every success, and he remembered al'Thor dead in the cruel, merciless Light. Light was benevolent and good to those people, but it had swallowed their children and everything they held dear, leaving only ashes behind. 

A dash of cold night breeze cut through the thick, oily air in the room, signaling someone had entered the inn from outside. Natael merely ignored it, still playing. Out of the corner of his eye he could spot the innkeeper jerking up, wiping his tear-stained face with his sleeve, smearing the grease and tears and dust all around, and rushing past him to serve the late visitor. He couldn't find it in himself to care. He would finish playing, and then climb up the creaky stairs and stay the rest of night, and tomorrow he will walk or hitch a ride on an ox-pulled cart, and move on ahead. 

Not many things other than music interested the man known as Joar Addam, even less the one who went by the name Asmodean. But they burned down, together with pride, together with any semblance of a home, they burned down together with the body of Rand al'Thor and what was left behind was little more than pale bones held together by shaking muscles, something with a black pit of hopelessness in its chest - a pathetic excuse for a human being that stumbled and spoke when spoken to and called itself Jasin Natael. Jasin Natael had no home, for Shorelle had been gone for thousands of years, and the Aiel Waste was not a home to him, neither was the place where Rand's children would grow. They were merely places to return to when Rand was there, or sit and wait for him to come back, and now... now he was gone. Natael spent his days wandering from village to village with a harp and an once empty leather-bound book, writing down the oldest history of the settlements he passed. History was something Eval cared for, and he would have known how to make sense of it all, but Jasin Natael had no place in the present and no future, and the past was all that remained there for him.

He finally finished playing, the last two yearning tones stretched on and out, crystal clear in the thick air. His head throbbed worse than ever so he closed his eyes and sat there, listening to the drunk patrons sob and even the innkeeper sniffle into his apron. He kept his lids shut tight, waiting for flashes of the pyre that would always return to him - and then he heard applause. A single person, softly clapping their hands together in the greasy, suffocating smoke.

He blinked a few times to clear out the fog from his head, squinting through what seemed to be oil stuck to his eyelashes, finally able to, at once, make out the face of the man who clapped. 

"You? No!" he cried, startling a few patrons, and scrambled back almost tipping the chair over. He was on his feet, staring right into the icy blue eyes. 

He had seen the man in his dreams, a long time ago, even despite the shaky wards placed all around every night. The tall, dark-haired man would laugh and, against all logic, let him live night after night. Then again he was never bound by logic. Natael held no illusions that he would leave the inn however, and for some reason, his will to live and see another morning decided to rear its ugly head right at that exact moment. 

"Not.. quite in the way you think" the man with Moridin's face grinned even wider, spreading his arms "I would have recognized you playing anywhere, old friend. And that song, even! Even the desert wept, leagues and leagues away." 

Natael blinked once through the grime in his eyes and headaches. Ishamael, even back as Elan Morin, had heard him play the March of Death, but the desert was where he met al'Thor. The man with Moridin's face kept smiling as Natael looked him over once more, noticing the different way his lips curled and eyes crinkled, youth and warmth seeping out even through all the bad things that happened. It had felt like looking into that desert sun again, the all-engulfing heat and light that would burn him to ashes. He could not look away this time. 

"No..." Natael whispered, not even the Light powerful enough to smother down the hope that burst out from his chest, from the places that he had long thought dead, powerful and warm and threatening to choke him "You?" he asked, barely above a hopeful whisper.

Moridin, no, al'Thor's lips stretched into the grin Natael remembered from the Waste and it was as though something in him broke. Rand was nodding, glee in his eyes, and Natael reached forward, hand shaking, _I watched you burn,_ and softly touched his shoulder, suddenly scared to the core of his bones, terrified that it won't be there.

His fingers pressed into rough, worn fabric of a traveler's coat, the very edge of a leather strap. A box with a flute in it hung from the strap, and, _it really is him, I heard him play,_ tears suddenly welled up in his eyes. The fire in his mind burned even brighter, but instead of engulfing him, burning him to ashes he was afraid of becoming, his very bones seemed to resonate. After so many years of confusion, wandering around in the dark, reaching for the Light only for it to burn everything to dust – pieces started falling into place, and warmth overflowed his chest, and he really was choking on it, throat tight and head threatening to split open and tears just pouring, pouring out from his eyes-

"Let's get you to your room" Rand seemed so worried, and it was still Rand even though his eyes were pale blue now. His hand was somehow on Natael's own, warm and solid and very _real._ All he could do was nod, not even trying to control the tears.

The innkeeper politely moved out of the way and they climbed the stairs together, slowly emerging from the oily sheen that hung in the air - even now, there would be a day when a lost relative or a dear, dear friend would return, somehow alive after Tarmon Gai'don, and every time there were tears of those who thought they were left behind. 

The greasy man didn't even know who it was that came back tonight, Natael thought briefly, and the absurdity made him stumble over a step on the stairs - not so difficult, as he was still near blind with the headache and the tears. He braced himself to fall but Rand caught his arm before he could, a warm, tight grip, pulling him back. Natael let the inertia of the tug carry him all the way, clinging onto Rand's coat, face buried in his chest right where it fell. He was still so unfairly tall.

Rand put one arm around his shoulders and Jasin Natael held onto him like a drowning man. The warmth mixed with the bright, blinding Light and Natael's headache slowly gave way to a tightness in his chest and heaving, pathetic sobs. Rand didn't urge them onward, merely standing there, both arms around him. Safe and breathing. Alive. 

_This is Light,_ Natael thought. This was Light and it didn't burn anymore. 

**Author's Note:**

> bless the spellcheck.  
> It's 40 minutes past the time when I thought this was going to be over.  
> The first draft is a lot different in mood and [here it is](https://1drv.ms/w/s!AmNFgHUyjI5zg1KqNOB2d_d34_nI)


End file.
